Light Becomes Darkness
by Paradoxically
Summary: Alternate Universe. How would things change if Rogue and Gambit's powers were switched? T for language and violence.
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

**Apology: Sorry to everyone who got excited because they thought that I finally updated. I promise a real update soon--when, I can't say yet. But soon. I have been editing though... Only the edits to chapter 1 have been posted though. **

**Title: "**Light Becomes Darkness"

**Premise: **This story takes place in an alternate universe, one in which Gambit has the powers normally associated with Rogue and Rogue has the powers normally associated with Gambit. Their past histories do not necessarily correspond with those generally accepted in the usual X-Men universe. The timeline is roughly that of X-Men Evolution, though initial events may have little to no correspondence. Let's go with no correspondence—so don't make too many assumptions about which characters are already present at Xavier's. Don't be too surprised to see aspects of the original cartoon series, the comics, or the movies reflected in this story, as well as a whole lot of "I just made this up" type of stuff. Inspiration may strike from any source!

**Main Characters:**Anna Marie "Rogue" "Darkholme" and Remy "Gambit" LeBeau

**Main Relationship:** Rogue and Gambit… eventually. I know, you're all anxious for it, but some character development has to happen first. Trust me on this one. A bit of Belladonna and Remy. Others to be revealed later

**Rating:** T for language, violence, etc

**Confessions:** I owe a big thanks to all of you reviewers, without whom I probably would have dropped this story line already. Some of your very insightful comments have really helped me to improve parts of the fic and set off new trains of thought that haven't even been written yet. Other acknowledgments include the incalculable value of Wikipedia (even if it can be unreliable) and other internet sources like Dictionary-dot-com.

**Disclaimer: **This story is not-for-profit. In fact, I'm probably losing money by writing this instead of concentrating on my studies… In other words, I'm probably wasting just a bit of tuition money. All characters, etc, are the property of Marvel. I can only take credit for the torture that I put them through. I can also take no credit for the songs/poems/excerpts at the beginning of each chapter.

**To Consider:** Remember that there is more than one definition of "becomes"**  
**

**be·come**

v. **be·came** (-kām'), **be·come**, **be·com·ing**, **be·comes**  
v. _intr._  
To grow or come to be: _became more knowledgeable; will become clearer in the morning._  
v. _tr._ To be appropriate or suitable to: _"It would not become me . . . to interfere with parties"_ _(Jonathan Swift)._ To show to advantage; look good with: _The new suit becomes you._


	2. Prologue: Explosion

**Prologue: Explosion**

"Have ya ever seen an explosion, a _really_ big one? Th'sort where ya can just swear tha' th' heat's gonna pull th' skin right offa yoah face an' burn yoah eyes in their sockets? Where ya can smell yoah own hair burnin', feel it curl up on yoah skin like a dead thang? An' then all that light, so bright it seems like it could light th' whole world… it just collapses in on itself an' there's nothin' but darkness left… darkness an' you, _in_ you…after all that light, that light that just burnt ya outta yourself.

Do yah know what that feels like? Tah see light becomin' th' darkness… Tah see tha', tah understand everythin' tha' it means… Tah be left so empty on the inside?"

-Rogue


	3. Secrets Kept, Secrets Shared

**Chapter One: Secrets Kept, Secrets Shared**

_"Keep you in the dark  
You know they all pretend  
Keep you in the dark  
And so it all began_

_Send in your skeletons  
Sing as their bones go marching in... again  
The need you buried deep  
The secrets that you keep are at the ready  
Are you ready?  
I'm finished making sense  
Done pleading ignorance  
That whole defense"_

_**--"The Pretender", Foo Fighters**_

* * *

"Rogue! Out! NOW!" Logan bellowed angrily into the microphone. Charles Xavier looked at him mildly, watching the intensity of Wolverine's expression. He was more than just upset—a furrow had entrenched itself between his thick black eyebrows, a clear indication of concern. Well, a clear indication to those who had studied the man thoroughly. To anyone else, it simply looked as his anger was so consuming that it had already begun to split his face. Still, the professor knew exactly what was on Logan's mind: a lecture for Rogue. She had not handled her solo exercise in the Danger Room well today, and Wolverine was sure to let her know it.

"She's bleeding again," Logan growled. "And she's got at least a sprained wrist."

"Perhaps she was not ready for this, Logan. She is rather new to the whole concept."

"No. She was ready. She's been trained most of her life—"

"But not with her_powers. _They're still new to her, Logan, she's _scared_ of them and she's never used them like this before."

"She panicked. I can see it in her face, Charles. And she still can't be trained with the others; she'll put them at risk when she loses her head like that."

"Are you sure? Perhaps it might be best to let her do a session with the others—being in a group might take some of the pressure off."

"No. She needs to know how to act on her own and how to watch her own back."

"Now, Logan, isn't that exactly the problem that we're trying to overcome with the others? We need them to be a cohesive team, able to work together."

"A team is still made up of individuals, Charles, and we need those individuals to be able to handle—"

He was saved the effort of further elaboration as a timid knock sounded at the doors of the observation deck. He crossed to the entrance in a huff, slinging the door open violently. The girl jumped, every muscle taught and her face tense, though expressionless: that was one lesson that she had learned all too well from Mystique. Otherwise, her appearance was disheveled, one eyebrow partly singed off, her hair frazzled and in disarray. Her gloves, designed to cover her palms and up to the last knuckle of each finger, were little more than tatters now. She tugged at them, not quite meeting the gaze of either of the men in the room as she surreptitiously wiped her wounded digits against what was left of her uniform. The blood was warm against her cool skin and it wasn't until that she let her fingers rest nervously against her thighs that she realized that they were trembling. Logan noticed too—the furrow between his brows deepened and his lips contracted slightly. Unconsciously, Rogue imitated his expression, her face hardening, all the feminine curve and expression solidifying into sharp, angry angles.

"What was that?"

Rogue swiped angrily at a few white strands dangling in front of her eyes before answering, the blood on her hands staining the hairs red. Logan's eyes narrowed, caught on the shrapnel embedded in her palms. "Ah was tryin' to fulfill th'objective: get outta th'maze withou' injury," she mumbled.

"Yeah, just skippin' over the 'without injury' part," Logan snarled, "Wasn't it made clear enough that there were 'bots in there that were hostile_and _'bots that were friendly? Haven't you learned to think before you just blow somethin' up? You're gonna to get yourself killed, Rogue, and you're gonna take someone else with you if you keep acting like this."

"Yes, sir," she mouthed, head down. This clearly wasn't going well—it was only her second weekend at the Institute and she was getting reamed once again. A part of her screamed in anger at the unfairness—the others weren't treated this way! Another, larger, part suffocated the screaming one, aware of how easy it would be to get herself kicked out and have nowhere to go, except back to _her_… The larger part was angry too… How had she been so _stupid_ yet _again?!_

"Come on, kid," Logan growled from the doorway, interrupting her thoughts. She started, looking him full in the face for once in surprise. The furrow was still there, but the tightness around his mouth had gone. "Wha…?" she stuttered, confused. "We're goin' to the Infirmary. You need cleaned up," he said, eyeing her palms once again.

"Rogue?" the Professor called. She glanced at him as he approached her, laying one palm on her shoulder. "It gets easier. It really does. But it takes patience and training. I know you're frustrated, but trust me. You'll see."

* * *

"I've got you all figgered out, Remy LeBeau," the blonde girl trilled, half dancing at his side.

"Do ya now? _Mon pere_ would be grateful for whatever insights yah could provide 'im wit', _petite," _the young man responded, eyebrows rising from behind his dark sunglasses. The bright sun of a late Louisiana summer beat down on them, the girl with her thick blonde hair braided into a stinging whip, and him, with too many clothes—and gloves—for such a hot day. It was clear that he was older than she, but not by much. A young man, a boy no longer, but still innocent, somehow. Or at least that's the way that it seemed.

"Ain't ya even curious t'know what I know?"

"Nope. But I got d'feelin' yah're bound and determined t'tell me anyways."

"Yah're such a kill-joy, Remy," she pouted.

"An' yah're a diva, Belladonna."

"Am not!"

"Are too," he retorted, falling into the familiar pattern of argument that he was too old for. It was always this way with them—the hazard of retaining childhood friends, he supposed. He watched her intently—perhaps she was something more than a childhood friend after all. He _was_ rather attached, he would admit that. But he was too young to be the marrying kind…wasn't he? He laughed at himself mentally, thinking of all the schemes they had concocted as kids…

Further cogitation upon the matter was abruptly cut off when he noticed the way that she fidgeted—uneasy, as she hardly ever was around him. His gaze, darkened by the shades, studied her intently. She noticed and ducked her head, abashed. Was this really Belladonna? Bold, brassy, tactless Belladonna? His eyebrows bent up into a quizzical expression—she blushed.

"Don't y'look at me that way, Remy."

"What, I ain't allowed t'look at de prettiest t'ing on dis side of the Ole Mississip?"

"Nah, 'cause I want ya lookin' at me," she rejoined, though her voice lacked its usual overweening confidence.

"I am lookin' at you. An' ya know what?" He stopped in his tracks for a moment, watching her. "I t'ink I like what I see."

Her nose, already slightly turned up at the end, wrinkled in dismay. "Yah're nothin but a big fat flirt, yah jerk. Yah'd say de same to anythin' that wears a skirt," she half-snarled, passing him by. He watched the movement of her bare legs for a moment, appreciating the swing of her hips but not failing to notice the stiffness in her back and shoulders. Something was up with her. Still, he responded on his usual manner, turning the whole affair into a joke.

"Yah know dat ain't true. M'cousin Lapin could put on a skirt an' prance aroun' in it wit'out me ever tellin' 'im he's a pretty liddle t'ing like you. An' Remy ain't fat," he added, pouting slightly.

She never broke her stride—Remy sighed. It would take more drastic measures than humor to get her attention, apparently. He extended his stride into an easy lope, catching her quickly. "Anyway, what was it dat you had 'all figgered out' 'bout me?"

She blushed—apparently he had hit the nail square on the head. "Shut up Remy."

"_Non_, tell me, Belle. It's just Remy, remember? De one who y'tried to beat up the first day o' t'ird grade 'cause 'e wouldn't give y'de swing."

"I _did_ whup y'that day, Remy."

"Nah, y'didn't. Can't whup someone who won' fight."

"Y'didn't fight, so y'lost."

"Didn't fight 'cuz_mon pere_ woulda whupped _me_ for layin' a hand on a girl wit'out absolutely needin' to. An' y'still ain't told me what I wanna know."

"Ya wanna know everythin' Remy."

"Everyt'ing 'bout you. What're ya t'inkin' 'bout?"

"Y'don't wanna know, an' I don't wanna tell y'anymore. I changed m'mind."

He darted in front of her, seizing her roughly by one bare shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Her skin felt strange through the thin material of the gloves, as if he were trying to feel the texture of water through the glass of an aquarium. "Yah're wrong, _Belle_,"—she couldn't help but to think that there was something sinfully sweet in the way he breathed her name—"I wanna know. An' I'll wait s'long as y'need me to before y'tell me. But y'are gonna tell me, _petite_, y'hear me?"

She brushed his hand away callously, willing herself not to meet his eyes for fear of what he would read there. "I hear ya, ya big lout," she said softly, more gently than she intended. She could tell that his eyes sparkled with mirth even behind those sunglasses-- she had the sudden overwhelming desire to push him, watch him land flat on his back in the dusty lane. Or bury a hatchet in his chest. She was so…conflicted, over this boy. He made her remember the girl that she used to be all too clearly and nearly erased from her memory her duties, her commitments, her future.

He made her _want_ something, the way that she had never wanted anything before. And this _wanting_, the sheer desire, would get her killed someday. It was only a matter of time.

"Bella…"

"Remy," she mocked.

"Sure are pretty when yah're aggravated."

"An' y'sure are stupid."

"Only over you."

"I hate you."

"Y'sure 'bout dat?"

"Yeah, Remy, I am. I hate you 'cause yah're s'pposed to be my friend an' I know yah're hidin' things from me. I don't even know yah!" Her normally sweet and mischievous eyes were burning now—she was only steps away from tears as her voice caught at the frayed edges of her words. "Why ya wear shades all th'time? An' pants an' long sleeves an' gloves, even though it's over a hundred degrees! I know what they say 'bout y'Remy, and I'm startin' t'believe it 'cause y'don't tell me nothin' y'self an' I might's' well not know ya at all! They call y'th'devil, Rem, an' I swear tha' some of it makes sense! Damn good sense, Rem," she said, her gaze boring past the dark shades he wore, "I feel like I lost ya, but I never had y't'begin with, did I? What's th'truth, Remy LeBeau?"

He stared at her a moment, dumbfounded, his jaw hanging slightly open. "Dis was what y'was keepin' all pent up?"

She blushed again, despite herself. It wasn't right to feel this way anymore.. "S'not exactly how I was plannin' t'bring it up."

He paused a moment, as if to digest her words. "De Devil? Dat's what dey're callin' me?"

"Just th'ones who don't know it's you. _Le Diable Blanc_."

"'De _white_ devil.' Huh. Dat's funny."

"No, it's not!"

"Yeah, it is, Bella," he murmured, "sometimes y'just gotta t'ink t'ings're funny or dey'll just beat y'down 'til yah're not'in at all."

"Why?"

"'Cause dat's de way dat life works."

"No…I meant why do they call ya the devil?"

"Y'mean y'ain't figgered dat out yet? Y'seen dese off enough t'have seen…" he said, touching one finger to the sunglasses.

She shook her head, whispering softly, "Y'never look at me when y'do, so I can't ever be sure. Sometimes I _thought_ they were brown, an' others…."

"Red an' black?" he said, smiling just a little. The expression highlighted a soft half-dimple at one corner of his mouth as he slid the sunglasses down his nose enough to expose his eyes. It felt odd, looking at her without the rose-colored lenses: all of the details that he had noticed, the highlights of her hair, the faint freckles on her nose, were swallowed up suddenly in the riot of color. It was like he couldn't see her properly, as if she were suddenly a stranger or a long-lost acquaintance. Not Belladonna.

She bit her lip as she looked at him, as if she were still hoping that it weren't true, looking for another explanation, a way out of this. The soft smile turned into a smirk that hid how badly the fear in her eyes hurt him. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd been expecting, but he'd been hoping that it wouldn't be quite like this…. And the eyes weren't even the worst part of it all.

"Sometimes dey are brown an' normal. Ain't _quite_ figgered out why dey change yet, so I wear de shades, jus' in case. An' the gloves… mebbe y'should sit down for dat part."

"Y'ain't all green an' scaly, are ya?" she joked feebly. He laughed, more to break the tension than anything else. He only _wished_ he were green and scaly.

"Not'in' like dat. Y'know one o' de reasons dey call me de devil?"

"They… it can't be true, it's just stupid, and it was only a couple of th'boys tryin' t'scare each other, but… they said y'stole people's souls," she whispered, her eyes trapped by his gaze, like a broken-winged bird before a cobra. And she hated herself for it, this powerlessness.

"Close," he laughed bitterly. "Sometimes it makes me feel like de devil, havin' dem in my head like dat."

"In… in your head? Like…voices?"

"_Non,_ not like a crazy person. No schizophrenia here. Just me. Just a fool," he said, as if to himself. "How do I put dis?" he asked the air, running one hand through his shaggy auburn hair. "Guess y'could say dat, when I touch a person, skin t'bare skin, I pick up whatevah it is runnin' t'rough dey're head at dat moment. De longer de contact, de more I get. If it's anymore dan just de barest touch, de person passes out, just like dat," he continued, snapping his fingers. The sound was oddly muffled by the gloves—"An' if I keep it up long enough I get everyt'ing—past, present, every liddle secret dey ever wanted to keep. An' dey don't go away… s'like havin' a little replica marchin' 'round in my head tellin' me what t'do. De more I know 'bout dem, de stronger dey are in dere," he said, tapping his skull. "Dey're still out here, in de real world, but dey're marchin' 'round in my head too. Ain't quite de same as stealin' souls. Still, I guess it's good for d'reputation, _non?_ Nobody in 'is right mind wants t'mess wit' a devil," he said, grinning.

"Yeah. Nobody in his right mind," Belladonna repeated, her mind already racing to the realms of death and intrigue, home to the Assassins. "Nobody in his right mind."

* * *

"Anna—"

"Don' call me that….please," she exhorted, looking away from the carnage of her hands. "Just…just Rogue, please," she finished, ducking her head. Her hair swung in front of her eyes, shielding them from sight.

"Why 'Rogue'?" he asked brusquely, careful not to frighten her by meeting her eyes. Instead, Logan kept his gaze trained on the task at hand: carefully removing each piece of shrapnel embedded in the girl's palms with the delicate tweezers. Why exactly he felt the need to be the one to clean her wounds was a sort of mystery to him—maybe it was only that he felt the need to put right some of what Mystique had put wrong. After all, he could say that it was his fault that the shape-shifting demon had been alive to do so much damage to this girl. Rogue's body language distracted him from his train of thought: He could feel her gaze flicker up to his face in an uneasy, nervous manner. He was carefully to seem disinterested, distant as he awaited her answer.

"It's what she used t'call me whenever Ah did something she said not to. Whenevah Ah was bein' rebellious."

"Good choice," he said, a wry grin deepening the shadows at one corner of his mouth. His sharp eyes studied her left hand again, searching for any remnants of debris. "Remind me to harass Charles into gettin' a decent Doc for this place," he muttered, "this whole nursemaid thing ain't exactly my style." She laughed weakly, "An' I guess yah could say that this whole X-men thang isn't exactly _mah_ style."

"It will be. Give it time," he said, extracting yet another sliver of metal from her skin. "I didn't think it was for me either, at first. But you learn different, even if you've got a thick skull. Like me. An' you'll figger it out eventually, like it 'cause you're good at it." He squinted at her hand, pale as the table beneath it except for the red flush of blood. "I think we're 'bout done with this one, kid. Just one last rinse with the salt water. It's gonna sting," he warned, reaching for the basin and the bottle at his right elbow.

"Why salt water?" she asked—at last, some curiosity. It was the first sign of interest she had shown since coming to the Institute, a nice change from the sullen silent treatment that nearly everyone had gotten.

"Hydrogen peroxide and alcohol create scar tissue. Kill and damage the live cells," he explained, pouring the liquid over her hand. She hissed softly and quickly bit down on her lip to prevent further signs of pain—Logan's eyes flickered to her. "Almost done," he reassured, checking for any last signs of contamination before finally approving of his work. He toweled her hand quickly, with a manner that Rogue found almost…paternal. Not that she was a judge of any such thing, she thought as she watched him wrap the gauze around her hand securely. Still, this was different from when… _that woman_ had tended her wounds. That was more like a… a soldier cleaning his gun. She had thought before that all mothers were like that, disciplinarians, the type who would always remind her that she had gotten hurt because she hadn't_obeyed exactly._ Now she knew. She'd been a weapon, a tool, a means to an end.

"Other one," Logan muttered, interrupting her bitter train of thoughts. As she tucked one hand other the table and brought the other out for treatment, she noticed that she was biting her lip again, nearly causing it to bleed. "Hey—you alright kid? Need more painkillers?" Logan asked, concerned at her pained expression. She shook her head, the slightest bit of moisture spilling from the corner of one eye. Moisture—not a tear—she thought, desperate to keep from crying. Her shoulders hunched in on themselves, afraid that Logan's shrewd eyes would out her pain, expose her. He was silent as he tended her right hand, in the same manner as the left, thinking that he could guess what the thoughts running through her head looked like, the injuries they made as they bounced around her skull incessantly.

"We've all got secrets, kid. And nobody's just a weapon… no matter how they train ya or brainwash ya or whatever. There's still a mind in there, a mind that makes choices. You just gotta use it. It's the choices you make that tell the world who you really are. So. Who is Rogue?"

Her eyes darted up to his and she barely noticed that he had already begun applying the gauze. He held her gaze for a long moment as he finished his work, not really expecting an answer. He tucked the edge of the gauze under a previous layer, swiftly cleaned off the supplies and took care of the mess. It wasn't until he was turned to leave that a small, hesitant voice answered him: "What if Ah don't know?"

He never turned around, only answered in his gruff voice as he left the room—"That's a question I'm still tryin' to figger out myself."


	4. Deadly Nightshade

"_From the brightest star  
Comes the blackest hole  
You had so much to offer  
Why did you offer your soul?  
I was there for you baby  
When you needed my help  
Would you deny for others  
What you demand for yourself?  
…  
You were pretty as a picture  
It was all there to see  
Then your face caught up with your psychology  
With a mouth full of teeth  
You ate all your friends  
And you broke every heart thinking every heart mends"_

_**--"Crumbs From Your Table", U2**_

* * *

Belladonna watched Remy's unprotected back grow smaller, half obscured by the thick Louisiana dust blown up by the stiff winds. A storm was coming for tonight, that was sure. A storm was exactly what N'awlins needed—a good raging storm, one that would wash all the filth and detritus right down into the sewers. A storm that would clear out the Thieves, make their blood run like muddy water down under the cities and into the realm of the dead. It was time: she felt it in her bones. The time for peace was over, as was the time of the Thieves. The devil would be first—sent down to Hell where he belonged. Tonight, he would not be Remy to her—she allowed herself a bare moment to think on his face, the feelings that he dredged up in her—but then she squashed it, buried the memory of him alive. He couldn't be her Remy tonight; he had to remain a Thief, a sworn enemy, her mark—the target she needed to hit to take her place as heir-apparent in the Guild hierarchy. It wasn't so much a matter of Guild politics as a need to prove something to herself—that she could, and would, be capable of making the hard decisions, no matter what she would rather do. Compassion, mercy, and love were luxuries that she could not afford, not if she were to survive the next few years, years that would be trial by fire. It didn't matter that she was the daughter of Marius Boudreaux: if anything, her status as the daughter of the current leader of the Assassins made her more of a target. Very few of the Heads had enjoyed long lives—if "enjoyed" was the right word for living with an eye on your allies and a knife in your hand, even while you slept. And that was in times of peace. In some ways, peace was a bad thing—underlings got ideas when they weren't kept busy enough. Tonight would be the beginning of the end of the tentative relative peace between the guilds. 

She wondered what it would look like, when he died. Would his breath gurgle in his throat, too shocked to say anything? Would he curse her with his last breath as she buried a knife between his ribs, or would he confess that he had always loved her, as she had always loved him? Perhaps it would have been better to have let him go in the beginning, when she had first found out that he was a Thief, and her enemy… The memory was still so vivid…

_He was being a brat again. Barely twelve, and so full of himself that he thought that he ruled the world. Part of it was her fault—she let him get away with everything, so long as he made her laugh, made her feel special. Remy was particularly good at that, making her feel like she was capable of something, even when she was a miserable failure. That feeling of helplessness had only increased this year on her birthday, when her father told her what he really was. What she really was, what her place would be. She wanted it, badly, but she was afraid. Sometimes she didn't like the things that she was being asked to do, trained to do. Some of it felt like lying, like cauterizing her heart, and others…some parts made her feel powerful, or at least she knew they would, once she finally got them right. But she could forget all of that with Remy. He was all laughter, smiles, jokes, and tricks. Like having a private jester. But not on that day. Bella had slipped back into the playground after school, sulking on the swings, toes dug into the dirt. She didn't want to go home, not now. And Remy had followed her, would not leave her alone, not for anything. He pulled her hair, kicked dust at her, pestered her half to death, and she still did not respond. She wanted to tell him, badly, but Papa had sworn her to secrecy…so that's what she told Remy. He had smiled, freckled nose crinkling, brown eyes shining. He proposed an exchange—a secret for a secret, though he was __**sure**__ that his was way better. That was what got her—Remy was not allowed to be better, no way, no how. Besides, she was the daughter of the Head of the Assassins—practically princess material. And Remy—well, Remy was her friend, but he was two steps up from a street urchin, no matter how his family dressed him. She could tell by the way that he watched everyone and everything—always waiting for his chance. The words spilled out of her mouth, quickly and jumbled in her excitement: She could tell someone. He burst into laughter at her statement, causing her to blush and become furious, outraged and fearing that he thought she was a liar. She moved to hit him squarely in the gut: he evaded her nimbly, laughing all the more. It was some time before he could convince her to stop chasing him and threatening him with death—as it was, he only succeeded because they were both growing tired and it had finally occurred to Bella that Remy had yet to tell his secret. They both flopped on the grass beneath on old willow tree, panting heavily. Remy had stared at the pieces of the blue, blue sky for a moment before finally saying, in the most definite and concrete words that she could ever remember, "Imma T'ief." The world came crashing down around her ears before Remy could soothe her, assure her that he wasn't ever gonna leave her. _

She should have left then, made it easier on them both, instead of watching the willow leaves flip and shudder in the afternoon sun. Cut off all contact, instead of clinging to him. They plotted and planned, arranging how each of them would be in control of their separate factions—Bella was ruthless in her plotted take-over, but Remy would always shake his head, saying he couldn't do that to his _pere, _or Henri, whom he loved dearly. Instead, Remy's tact was to make them see reason—he never questioned whether or not it was possible. He was Remy, and it was his plan, so it had to work. And once they were the ones in control, they would make everyone be friends—so they thought. It was during one of these long conversations that Remy had pierced her through with his curious gaze, fixing her with a look that made her catch her breath.

"_Would y'marry me Belle?"_

The words were still strong in her memory—probably because she had believed that they were true. Over the years, they led to a wonderful fantasy life—one of high adventure, invincibility, and everlasting love. But it wasn't to be. Remy had started wearing shades, and she wondered. Long sleeves, and she wondered more. Gloves—how she missed the feel of his warm, calloused palm in hers. They stopped saying things, substituted smiles and smirks. But Remy had always been able to see past her masks: She had yet to crack his. The only thing that she could do was to wait, and hope, that he would let her see past the façade. And then she grew tired of it, stopped believing in the impossible. Carefully, deliberately, she had begun to shut off her emotions, but the process was faulty. Remy just wouldn't let certain things stay dead.

That would change, after tonight. She would bury him, with her love.

* * *

She had run away once before—a short-lived endeavor, committed at the tender age of nine, involving a backpack stuffed full of granola bars, Bibby—the stuffed lamb that had been with her from day one of the adoption—and four long hours spent sulking, perched in a willow tree within sight of her bedroom. Rogue wasn't sure what she had been expecting, then or now, but one thing was for sure—Mystique was not coming for her. Neither was Aunt Irene, or Rae—the name that she had known Mystique by before discovering her true identity. "Mystique"—that was her real name, the truth about the woman that she had come to think of as the closest thing to a mother that she would ever have…and that was the sad truth. Mystique was the only mother that she had ever known. What chance of becoming a normal human being did she have? If she were to be honest—none. She carried mutant DNA in her every cell, by definition she was not normal. But her chances of being a decent kind of person? Those had increased exponentially the day that she had agreed to stay in the Institute. At the time, it had felt more like agreeing to become a hostage, imprisoned in the base of an enemy. It had taken a full wekk to realize that it was the life that she had been living with Mystique and the Brotherhood that had featured her as a captive—a duped, manipulated, and gullible fool. Proof that she had never meant anything to Mystique was contained in the dozen boxes stacked against the wall of the bedroom that Xavier had assured her was now her own: they had shown up at the gates of the Institute just one day after Xavier had informed Irene of Rogue's intent to join the X-Men. Each box was filled with the paraphernalia of Rogue's previous life, the things that she had cherished, objects that had once meant something. Now, she wasn't so sure: Why shouldn't those meanings turn out to be lies too? Everything else had. 

Though Logan, Xavier, and Ororo had all assured her that there was nothing physically dangerous in the boxes, she was still scared of the damage that they could inflict—the girl didn't need the Professor to tell her that sometimes psychological injuries were the most painful…That was why only one box had been opened, the one containing Bibby. Rogue took the plush creature from his nest carefully, as if afraid that she would destroy every tender memory if she jostled him. He looked exactly the same as he had two weeks ago—a frayed green silk ribbon around his neck, the pale pink stitched smile, bright glassy eyes, the one ear slightly stained with the cough syrup that she had refused in one childhood illness. Still, she couldn't help but feel that there was something different about him, though the truth was that she was the one who had changed. Rogue set Bibby down on her nightstand, sinking down onto her bed. Bibby's glassy eyes seemed to watch her intently as she drew her knees up to her chin. "So what do I know?" she whispered to the air.

The lamb didn't answer—not that she had been expecting it to. It was just that, well, to be honest, she had grown used to accepting Mystique's decisions and edicts, though she had a mind and thoughts of her own. Rebellion had occurred to her but hadn't ever seemed like a viable option. Mystique had always known exactly how to suppress or dismiss those seeds of resentment with shows of affection. Rogue had always felt guilty at these, ungrateful to the woman who had adopted her. But now—she smiled to herself. Better later than never. Mystique would not fail to consider Rogue's defection to the X-Men as a betrayal of the highest order, deserving an eternal imprisonment in the Ninth Circle of Dante's hellish Inferno. A small part of Rogue couldn't help but hope that Mystique had been hurt as much as she had been to see her turn, abandon her like that to the enemy… And another part couldn't help but wish that she hadn't provoked Pietro so, if he hadn't let slip the truth, for then events might have turned out differently…

"_Shut yoah trap, Pietro. Ya ain't nothin' but a speed-talkin', spandex-wearin' worthless piece o' scum," she hissed, coming dangerously close to his face. Her gray-green eyes flared angrily and her hands twitched: he knew that she longed to lay her hands on his person and cause him to implode. His super-speedy mind processed the image quickly: Quicksilver splattered all over the walls. What a waste. Still, loathe to show any sign of retreat, he took a single step backwards while goading her: "Oh yeah? At least __**I**__ can use my powers."_

_Her nostrils flared angrily, a sure sign that he was in for it now. "At least Ah ain't only here 'cause one o' my parents is in charge of this whole operation."_

"_You so sure 'bout that?"_

"_What are ya talkin' about ya idiot?"_

"_You sure you're not here only because one of your parents wants it that way?"_

"_Mah parents are dead," she snarled vehemently._

"_Ooooh- looks-like-precious-little-Anne-Marie-has-a-soft-spot," he challenged._

"_Ah'm gonna make yah into one big ol' 'soft-spot' if yah don't spit out what yah're tryin' t'say this minute!"_

"_What, can't put it together yourself?"_

"_Ah'm gonna kill ya."_

"_Then you'll never find out."_

"_Fine then, Ah'm gonna beat yah into a bloody pulp," she threatened, pulling a glove from one hand. "And then Ah'm gonna give Toad every single one o' those stupid jumpsuits o' yores to wear an' get all slimy."_

"_Come on, Ann-Marie, you haven't got the guts to do it—you haven't got the guts to do anything, do you? I wonder if Mystique ever regrets picking you. You're useless. I bet she wishes she could just drop you off at that orphanage or whatever place it was she picked you up from. Aww, little Annie-Marie… Did you sing stupid songs and try to save dogs, huh? Where's your Daddy Warbucks now, Orphan Annie?" He knew it was stupid, saying all of this, but the vitriol kept spewing from his mouth, nearly unstoppable. Perhaps some of it was resentment: Anne-Marie was unaccountably the favorite, despite her reluctance to use her powers. Maybe it was the way that Magneto and Mystique both treated her as crucial to their plans—and he, Magneto's own son, was nothing more than…expendable. Maybe that was the motivation behind his desire to hurt her, estrange her from Mystique._

"_What are you talking about?" she had growled, positively feral._

"_But I guess you might as well know," he said, over the grinding of her teeth, "Mystique and that woman. Raven or whatever you called her—they're one and the same. She's been lying to you this whole time—training you up as her own personal weapon. You're nothing more than a tool to her and won't ever be anything more." _

_She had looked stunned—too stunned to even slap him, and he knew that he had affected her. A small part of him leapt in triumph to see her in as much pain as he had known himself. He had slipped from her nerveless grasp, speeding away. _

_He had avoided her all that week—she sulked and stayed away. A week later and things weren't quite the same. The house was quiet, far too quiet. And then Mystique came back—without Rogue. _

_Rogue remembered the red haze—the power of the Scott's blast had thrown her into a brick wall, the aching crack of her head against the building. The blood dripped down her neck as the world went grey: She remembered reaching for Mystique, grabbing her by the wrist, only to be repulsed, thrown aside so that she could flee faster. Her image had shifted, like mercury, and suddenly she was Rae—the only mother that Rogue had ever known, running, abandoning her. Wolverine's bass growl rumbled in her ears as the tears began to fall down her cheeks, and she remembered being afraid—so afraid. If only the pain would stop…Even the bleeding wouldn't be so bad if her world weren't crumbling, breaking, shattering, as Pietro's words thundered through her head, the truth ringing clear and horrible. _

_Things breaking, a whimper._

_Such a feeble and weak sound._

_A rough hand at her wrist, checking her pulse. _

_A growling rumble. A higher voice._

_Searing pain as something was moved. Something that shouldn't have moved like that. _

_Again, a whimper. Louder this time._

_Her whimper, as she slipped from consciousness_

She clutched a pillow to her chest, suppressing the urge to cry as her face contorted and twisted under Bibby's glassy-eyed glaze. The memories were so much… too much.

Better to move on, pretend none of it had ever happened.

Best to learn from her mistakes, and never let anyone that close ever again. Life would be better this way. No strings, for they had a tendency to weave themselves together, and then became a noose all too easily.

No more of that. No ties.

It couldn't be that hard, could it?

* * *

Her hands sketched the plan with sure and deliberate motions. Remy would be performing a reconnaissance mission tonight in the French Quarter of only moderate difficulty. The thief was sure to be alone—he always seemed to work alone—and she knew that he would be arrogant, as his success was all but guaranteed. Tailing him and other Thieves had established their routine: a single operative whenever possible, working with another member of the Guild stationed nearby as a safety-net, just in case something went wrong. Remy was singular though, as he always left for missions an entire hour early. The first hour was spent pacing in public—no opportunities there—before he entered a Catholic Church, no matter what the day or hour. This puzzled Belladonna to no end—Remy had always seemed more like the type to attend services only on Easter and Christmas. Still, the opportunity was too perfect to pass up: he made himself vulnerable and his partner, most likely to be Henri, would not be expecting him to report for some time. It was the best chance she had of catching him in one-on-one combat… though her father's men were sure to be standing nearby, ready to extract her. She honestly thought that she would rather die than be humiliated so. A few strokes finished the plan, one that had already solidified in her mind. She rose from her seat on the bed with a stretch, embarking on a series of calisthenics to warm up her body. Now, to get ready… 

The eyeliner went on smoothly, thick black lines that played up the easy blue of her eyes and accented their almond shape. Mascara next, applied with the same steady hand for long and demure lashes. She dusted metallic eye-shadow over her eyelids, blending and shading colors into each other. Then came foundation, blending smoothly with her already nearly flawless complexion, followed by the lip-liner that accentuated the curve and fullness of her lips so very well. Her lipstick went on last, a blooming red that shone like blood in the light of the moon.

She stepped back from the mirror, appraising her appearance. Her blonde waves trailed smoothly down her back, glistening in the lamplight as it spilled across the bare ivory of her shoulders. She would be the first to admit that, yes, the outfit was overly melodramatic, but it seemed fitting to her that every rite of passage be accompanied by an elaborate get-up. Thus, the little number currently draping across her frame in a highly impractical manner: White satin with sheer under- and over-lays spilled to the ground in casual elegance, dusting the carpet at her feet. As if the plunging neckline of the halter-top didn't expose enough skin, a carefully contrived slit laid bare her left leg to mid-thigh. Belladonna tugged at the material slightly, making sure that it hid her tight shorts underneath (after all, she was first and foremost an Assassin, and no real lady would round-house kick a man without making sure that she was decently covered first) as well as the assortment of knives and other sharp implements concealed in various holsters. She wasn't taking any chances—despite her usual reluctance to use automated weapons, she would even carry a handgun. After all, Remy was still a thief and she was taking no chances. She picked it up from her vanity stand, admiring the way that the moonlight and lamplight combined to play together over the smooth barrel. She checked the round one last time—full. Safety on, hollow-point bullets for maximum damage… all ready to go. She slipped it into the last empty holster, promising herself that it was a weapon of last resort—somehow, it seemed to her that Remy's death would be easier to execute if it were done with as little space between them as possible. Maybe it would seem more real, more tangible. More like a matter of survival and less of a murder.

She ran over her mental inventory one more time, a slight and nervous flutter beating at the base of her throat. She had killed before, true, but she had yet to kill a man that she had known for nearly all of her life. The others had been so impersonal, careful targets whose acquaintance she had cultivated only with the goal of their deaths in mind….

Belladonna frowned at her reflection in the mirror. Something was off… She stared a moment, before finally realizing what the missing final touch was. She dug through her jewelry box, finally finding the deep burgundy accent she was looking for: she fixed it in her hair with a smile, admiring the contrast between her light colored hair and the enameled pin featuring the belladonna flower, the deadly nightshade.

How appropriate.

* * *

AN: This was definitely the chapter for flashbacks. Serious italics usage. So, what do you think? Bella's on the warpath, but a little conflicted. Poor Remy, he's not going to be too happy in the next couple of chapters. And poor Rogue, she's pretty angsty too right now. 

Trivia--Dante's Ninth Circle was reserved for betrayers--Judas is the most notable. Hollow-point bullets inflict maximum damage because the expand on impact. Belladonna means beautiful woman in Italian and is also the name of a poisonous flower/shrub/thing. One leaf will kill an adult, but it used to be used as a cosmetic. It's also called the deadly nightshade.

Are things clear? I have an idea of what's going on in my head, so I think I may be accidentally omitting details here and there. It doesn't help that I've written this chapter in two sections--one before my academic world decided to collapse in on me and one after. And half of it was written in an airport, so that doesn't help. I get so distracted people-watching... I get distracted by everything, come to think of it. Anyway, give me your suggestions. Danke schoen! (Thanks very much)!


	5. Saint Christopher

_**Acquainted with the Night**__  
__**Robert Frost**_

_I have been one acquainted with the night.  
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain._

_I have outwalked the furthest city light._

_I have looked down the saddest city lane.  
I have passed by the watchman on his beat  
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain._

_I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet  
When far away an interrupted cry  
Came over houses from another street,_

_But not to call me back or say good-bye;  
And further still at an unearthly height,  
One luminary clock against the sky_

_Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.  
I have been one acquainted with the night._

* * *

Etienne was always like this right before a heist, no matter how small or large. Remy could feel him, a normal quiet and subdued presence, tapping around the back of his skull restlessly. It was like having someone drum their fingers on the table to a melody he couldn't ever figure out, despite its familiarity. Whispers of guilt snaked their way into his thoughts. Etienne wouldn't be in his head if it weren't for him. Etienne wouldn't be dead if it weren't for him. So much would be right, if it weren't for him.

But none of that mattered now. What was done was done, and Remy had to placate Etienne's ghostly psyche if he hoped to have any success this night. That was why he'd left so early—pinned a communicating device to the inside of his T-shirt's collar, slid in the earpiece, double-checked the contents of his trench coat's pockets, and waved to Henri on his way out the door. That was the great thing about Henri—he never demanded answers he didn't need, but he was always there at Remy's back when he was needed. Always.

Remy shook his head, as if to dispel his current train of thoughts. They were waking Etienne…

He couldn't afford this tonight. He needed to be sharp, aware. Not schizophrenic.

The strike of each heel against the packed dirt of the front yard sounded loudly in his ears. It was quiet tonight—the distinct and unsettling quiet that falls before a storm. The humidity in the air had risen, now oppressive enough to make Remy feel uneasy as he walked under the live oaks, Spanish moss trailing from their branches like scattered bits of death-shrouds. He wrested his motorcycle from its station under a specific tree, grumbling about having to hide it from the rest of the Thieves. It often seemed to him that the motto of some of the younger members should be "What's yours is mine and what's mine is mine." Thus, the reasoning behind the Kryptonite locks. Not that those would stop them—just slow them down long enough for Remy to knock a bit of sense into the young and ignorant. Not that he was that old himself—just wiser, better-trained, and usually stronger. Having to survive despite all odds kind of had that effect on a person.

And there was Etienne again, as he jammed the key in the ignition and the motor fired to life_. Some of us never got de chance t'survive…_

_**Shut up. I can't do dis tonight,**_ he thought, revving the engine twice. Remy's relationship with Etienne's psyche had developed and evolved to the point where he could hold a discussion with the poor boy instead of being taken over by his memories and persona. Sometimes Remy couldn't help but wonder at his perspective—he seemed so much older than thirteen…

_Ya can't? Or ya won'? Ya can't spend a little time in ya own head wit' y'cousin?_

_**Ya know why.**_

_What, y'ain't scared of me, is ya Remy?_

He could see Etienne in his head: profusely freckled, a build stockier and smaller than his own lanky thirteen year old self. He saw everything he didn't want to—black water, skin gone white from being in the water so long…He slammed down on the gas, hard, the bike's rear tire fishtailing wildly as he took off, tearing the grass from its roots.

_Ya can't outrun me Remy. _

_**I can sure as hell try.**_

_Dere ain't a bike fast 'nuff in all the world for dat, Remy. Why you doin' dis?_

_**Doin' what?**_

_De job, de heist, De Guild… all of it. Why?_

_**For family.**_

_Yeah, some family we got. I'm dead an' y'got voices in y'head 'cuz o' dem. Dey _knew,_ Remy, dey knew what we was in for an' dey did nut'in 'bout it. Dey don' care Remy. Y'just a tool, an' y'gonna break some day. _

_**Henri cares. **__**Henri was d'one t'pull me out.**_

_Henri didn't know ennymore dan we did._

_**Why'm I arguin' wit' you? Y'just a voice in m'head.**_

_'Cause I'm Etienne. An' y're right—wasn't f'you an mebbe I wouldn'a died. Mebbe I woulda. We ain't ever gonna know, is we?_

_**Y'ain't even Etienne—jus' a piece o' him from when 'e was t'irteen.**_

_I'm d'only piece lef'. _

_**I t'ought y'believed in souls an' stuff, religion an' all dat. Why else y'makin' me go t'th'chuch wit' every heist so y'can make y'confession?**_

_If dere are souls an' stuff, den I is where I is. No changin' dat now. This--It__ain't f'me, Rems. Ain't f'me._

* * *

Henri LeBeau wasn't exactly worried. Remy was an accomplished thief—one of the very best. Henri—well, Henri was good, but logistics were where he could really shine. He had a good head, that boy, better than most. Maybe that was why he and Remy got along so well—they could both understand the same things, though Henri had more maturity behind his judgments than Remy. He was less impulsive, just as thorough, and, unlike Remy, was good with a team. He was perfectly suited to become the next Guild leader—may God postpone that day.

Henri wasn't exactly worried, but he was uneasy. Maybe it was just the way that the thunderheads loomed on the horizon, but he didn't think so. Still, he switched on the earpiece that corresponded to the communicator clipped onto Remy's shirt, just in case. Fortune favors the prepared, after all.

A pair of cool hands against his neck startled him: the light giggle from behind him betrayed the identity of their owner as his own fiancée, the girl that he proudly proclaimed to be "d'mos' beautiful an' sof'-hearted t'ing eider side o' de Mississip."

"Some T'ief you are," she teased, "jumpin' at a lil' ole t'ing like _moi."_

"Y're scarier den y'look, I know dat much."

She punched his shoulder lightly, wrinkling her nose at him, though he couldn't see. He swept around quickly, grabbing her by the waist and twirling her with him. She couldn't help but laugh, a free, ringing sound that never failed to lift Henri's heart. Life was simpler with Mercy. Still, she had managed to see through him: "Now tell me, why woulda perfectly…well, _pretty_ sensible man like yaself be standin' out in de middle of de yard, pretendin' t'watch de t'underclouds when he's really watchin' his kid brot'er ride off into de sunset?"

"Mebbe he's just t'inkin'" Henri answered, wrapping his hands comfortably around her waist.

"Y't'ink dat jus' mebbe he wants t'tell his wife-t'-be about it?"

"Yeah, mebbe he does. Jus' mebbe, if she wants t'hear."

"I t'ink she's de type who always wants t'hear what he's got t'say… unless dey're fightin'."

"If he was a smart 'un, he wouldn' fight wit' a sweet liddle t'ing like her."

"Mebbe she jes' like t'fight sometimes. Adds a little spice t'life, don' y't'ink?"

"I t'ink y're crazy."

"Den y're crazy too, since ya love me."

"Who evah said I love ya?"

"You. An' no take-backs," she said, raising herself up on tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the mouth.

"Hmm, I t'ink I might remember a liddle somet'in' like dat… but I ain't quite sure…"

Mercy looked up at him, rolling her eyes prettily. A dimple began to show at the corner of Henri's mouth on seeing her expression. "Mebbe dis will make y'remember correctly, ya fool," she muttered, seizing him tightly by the collar and drawing him down to her level before kissing him roughly. His large arms embraced her tightly, holding her close even when they broke apart, breathing heavily. "Now dat we've settled dat, what's got ya so worried?" she said, grinning.

"Who sez we settled dat?"

"I do," she said, placing her hands on his broad chest. "Now tell me. Please?"

Henri never had been able to resist that particularly sweet note of plea that she managed to inject into her voice—he was putty in her hands and he knew it.

"I ain't worried. Fo' Remy."

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Why? He's always been able t'take care of himself, right?"

"Yeah. But he left early 'gain."

"He always does dat, don't he?"

"Yeah."

"So why're ya so worried?"

"I t'ink it's got somet'in t'do wit' Etienne."

"Who's Etienne? I don' t'ink I've ever heard 'bout him."

"Ya wouldn't have. He's dead an' nobody likes t'talk about it."

"Dat's kinda normal, Henri."

"It's de reasons dat we don't talk 'bout it dat ain't 'xactly normal. Y'see, Etienne'n'Remy were 'bout de same age. Etienne had grown up in de family, was m'cousin' o' some sort… mebbe m't'ird cousin. Remy, well, he got picked up offa de streets when he was 'bout eight or so. Tried t'pick Jean-Luc's pocket an' he noticed dose eyes of his, red on black. T'ought dere jus' migh' be somet'in special 'bout ol' Remy. So he adopted 'im, started trainin' 'im like 'is own son. In de Guild, a T'ief's gotta prove 'imself when he's 'bout t'irteen or so, complete a till as a rite o' passage o' somet'in'. Remy an' Etienne was s'posed t'till toget'er, bein' de same age an' all. So Jean-Luc gave 'em a big target, dere bein' de two of 'em an' everyt'ing. Too big, it turned out…

_Henri had been sitting on the edge of the riverbank all night, watching and waiting for the two young boys. It was a chilly night, early winter, but that didn't exactly mean frigid temperatures—this was Louisiana, after all. He and two others were assigned to be the fall-backs, the rescue team, if something should go wrong. Later, he would wonder why Jean-Luc hadn't sent more experienced men. Maybe his father hadn't known the threat or understood the magnitude. Still, Henri couldn't have helped but to see that his _pere_ wasn't exactly surprised when he hade made that report that one of the boys was dead, the other nearly so. And something… something very strange had happened. _

_Etienne and Remy had come pelting out of the house on the opposite bank, fleeing for their lives. Remy limped—he had been burned severely, but still ran on gamely. Etienne was holding his shoulder where a similar injury had been placed. As it turned out, Jean-Luc had set the boys up to stealing from a very wealthy woman, one with mysterious powers…and it had nearly been the death of them. _

_Henri had tracked them with a set of night-goggles, watching the path that their body-warmth made through the night. It dimmed suddenly as they hit the cold water. What were they doing? The river was wide and strong—there was no way that they could swim across! Not with those injuries! Henri had called to his two companions and thrown aside the goggles, searching frantically for…for what, he didn't know. Something, anything… a rope, a life-vest… things that they didn't have. He looked towards the river again, straining to discern them with his bare eyes—to no avail. He groped about in the dark for the goggles, stumbling and bumbling. Why weren't the other men helping more? But they were just as panicked as he was, and Henri realized that they were his own age—barely seventeen. Inexperienced and naïve, they had no idea what to do. Finally, Henri's hand landed on the goggles—he jammed them to his eyes, searching the river. There! Nearly halfway across—but the glow from both boys was dim, one even dimmer than the other: that was Remy. Etienne was pulling him along as best he was able, tugging at the neck of Remy's shirt as he floundered along. Suddenly Henri wished that he had spent more time teaching Remy how to swim—it had never been his strong suit. And then something odd happened—Remy had moved to grab Etienne as a particularly strong current grasped him and began to pull him under. Suddenly, it was Remy's figure that was lit up in Henri's night vision goggles, but the spot where Etienne should have been faded, quickly going black. It wouldn't be until later that Henri would find out that Remy's body, operating in self-preservation, had someone how managed to drain Etienne of his remaining energy. _

_Henri had dove into the river when he lost Etienne in his view-finder. To be honest, he was more worried about Remy, the boy that he had already thought of as his brother for some time. Remy was the one dragged to shore. Fortunately, Henri's gear for the night included long sleeves and gloves that prevented any detrimental contact with Remy's skin. _

_Etienne wouldn't be found until the next day. The sight was horrible—the corpse had been so changed that no one could quite believe that this was their Etienne. _

_Remy hadn't been quite the same since. On occasion, he would act like Etienne, have Etienne's voice, mannerisms, and tastes…but then he would be Remy again. It seemed almost as if two souls had begun to reside in one body…but then Jean-Luc was able to explain it all. Apparently genetic mutations were what allowed the boy to have such unusual abilities, and these abilities had manifested as part of his adolescence and in response to his dire need. _

_The treasure that Remy had stolen that day, during that till, had never seemed quite the same to him again. It had seemed a joke, at first, to steal something that was of such little value—however, it had been known to be upon the person of their target at all times. He had kept in, in memorial of what Etienne had given his life for. Somehow, the price and the value of it didn't seem to quite match up. Still, the silver chain never left his neck and the tarnished medallion of St. Christopher continued to tap against his chest with every move, the motto carved there shining through the tarnish:_

_"_Regarde St Christophe et va-t-en rassuré."

"_Look at St. Christopher and go on reassured."_

* * *

Remy thumbed the medallion hanging against his chest unconsciously. The motorcycle had been left some ways away as he paced up and down the city streets. The saints in the stained glass windows of the church opposite seemed to stare down at him with impassive eyes, blacker than the night that was falling around them so steadily. He had quarter of an hour left before the official beginning of his mission—surely that was enough.

He still didn't want to go in, though Etienne was threatening to drive him insane if he didn't.

He didn't like the way the church smelled and he hated the confessional booths more than anything. Some genius architect had evidently seen far too many movies involving heroes hiding in the small, confining closets. They seemed too much like coffins to Remy.

Still, fighting a bout of claustrophobia was better than arguing with Etienne. Like all thirteen year olds, he could be very, very annoying when he so wished.

And he _definitely_ so wished.

Remy eyed the large, heavy doors nervously. Better to get it over with. Better to avoid the explanations that would be required if her were late. The last thing that he needed now was an investigation into the peculiar workings of his mind. He crossed the street at a light jog, earning more than a few curses and rude gestures as he darted between and in front of cars, but they all slid off of his smooth demeanor now that his mind was made up. The doors swung in easily, far more easily than he had been expecting, to reveal an empty and echoing chapel devoid of all life.

Or, so it seemed.

Etienne's insistent presence guided Remy through the basic Catholic rituals: kneeling, holy water, crossing… everything that Remy couldn't have remembered to do himself. He avoided the confessional booths—something about them gave him an uneasy feeling today. Instead, he slid into a pew and ducked his head, staring at his hands as they clasped together in an automatic gesture. He was still thinking on Etienne's words from earlier: "_This--It__ain't f'me, Rems. Ain't f'me." _

He was so lost in thought that he never heard the dull clicking of her high-heeled shoes. He never heard the rustle of the satin over her skin, or the smooth whisk of her hair over the dress as she tossed it over her shoulder.

He was only thinking of Etienne when she made her move.

Instinct saved him at the last: he turned just as her fist popped over his shoulder and the dagger in her hand grazed his jawline painfully as it scraped along his skin.

He was up and away in a moment, putting two pews between them as quickly as possible. The smile on his face was bitter as he drew his collapsible bo staff from a pocket. So this is how it was.

"Ya miss me o' somet'in, Bella?"

She smiled sweetly, insincerely, as she threw the dagger at him. He dodged it easily enough, but his movement was so restricted by the pews to his front and back that he knew it was only a matter of time before she managed to hit him like a target in a carnival arcade game.

"I'll take dat as a 'no', den." He appraised her for a moment, eyes dwelling familiarly along every curve and exposed bit of skin. His expression drove a flush to her cheeks despite herself and she couldn't help but grumble, just a little, in the back of her throat as he said, "Y'lookin' pretty good dere, Bella. T'ough, I gotta say, dat looks a bit like a weddin' dress."

Her smile twisted just a little, just enough to prove to Remy that he had hit a weak spot. The imagery of the white dress did not escape her: the man that she had always planned on marrying would be the one that she would kill.

"An' I ain't 'xactly de groom y're lookin' for."

Blood trickled down his neck in a thin warm ribbon as it occurred to him that this might just be a very, very long night.

Oh, well. At least he had hidden his motorcycle where no one would steal it. He doubted that he would be in a condition to ride, after this.

_C'est la vie,_ he thought as the second dagger penetrated his skin, burying itself in his thigh. This would be a very long night indeed.

* * *

To be frank, I love Henri and Mercy. I think that Remy needs a support system and these guys are it. Plus, I really needed some fluff after all the angsty-angst-angstness. Again, this chapter was pretty major on the flashbacks. Did the whole Remy-absorbing-Etienne-and-then-surviving-because-he-stole-his-life-energy thing make sense? There are a few things about this incident that will become more clear later. And I think that I was heavily influenced by some other authors in their description of the tilling fiasco... If it comes across as plagiaristic, hit me over the head and tell me to revise. In all honesty, I'm really tired and I should probably edit this before I post... but I'm not.

Happy Thanksgiving! This chapter is my present for the holiday--you have no idea how unusual it is for me to get 2 chappies done in 2 days... well, 3 technically, it is 4 am.


	6. Sanctuary

"_And we lay, we lay together just not  
Too close, too close (How close is close enough?)  
We lay, we lay together just not  
Too close, too close_

_I just wanna break you down so badly  
Well I trip over everything you say  
I just wanna break you down so badly  
In the worst way (worst way)_

_I'm gonna make damn sure that you can't ever leave  
No, you won't ever get too far from me  
You won't ever get too far from me  
I'll make damn sure that you can't ever leave  
No, you won't ever get too far from me  
You won't ever get too far from me  
You won't ever get too far from me  
You won't ever get too far..."_

"_**MakeDamnSure"—Taking Back Sunday**_

* * *

Henri glanced at his watch—Fifteen minutes until Remy would be approaching his target. He'd best be leaving. The way he drove, he could make it into the city and be only ten minutes late. As usual. He kissed Mercy's cheek and slid into the front seat of his SUV, the feeling of foreboding growing in his stomach. He tried to return her smile but failed as his eyes set on the dark clouds overhead. He threw the car in reverse, eyes locked on hers, and backed out of the yard and onto the actual driveway. Mercy shook her head, laughing slightly—that was the thing about Southern boys. They never knew how to park anywhere except in the yard.

Henri executed the change in direction smoothly, perhaps throwing a little more dust and debris than he should have: his eyes found Mercy in the rearview mirror. She was laughing, smiling at him indulgently.

It wasn't until Henri had passed a bend in the driveway and was sheltered from sight that Mercy let the smile fall. She bit her lip nervously, casting a glance at the darkening sky overhead. She felt it too—something was about to go very, very wrong.

Henri fiddled with the radio knobs restlessly, not bothering to quite flip the power switch. There wouldn't be anything but weather reports to listen to anyways, and it was pretty obvious what they would have to say. The silence emanating from his earpiece was what worried him the most, though Remy had never used it before. A thousand useless worries ran through Henri's mind: What Remy had forgotten how to use it? What if he hadn't ever put it on? What if he'd already lost it, or the battery was dead, or the circuits had shorted out?

He refused to think that Remy might be in a condition where he was unable to use it.

He fiddled with the microphone attached to the collar of his shirt—one good press would activate it, connect him to Remy. But he didn't press it: some little part of him told that he was worrying far too much, being too much of an older brother. Too overprotective, too paranoid.

Still, the feeling was hard to shake. The first fat drops of rain were already pelting his windshield and the only sound in the car was the _thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap_ of the wipers against the glass.

He jumped as his earpiece crackled to life: static, no voice. His fingers found the microphone at the edge of his shirt and clamped down on it as his foot came down a little harder on the gas pedal, even as he told himself that it was probably nothing, maybe just a malfunction.

"Remy?"

No answer.

"Remy!"

"Remy LeBeau? Somet'in happen?"

A dull grunt in answer.

"Remy, I'mma gonna kick y'ass if y'don't answer me in de next t'ree seconds."

"Y'sound worried, Henri," Remy finally answered. Henri let go the breath that he hadn't even realized that he was holding.

"Wha's goin' on?"

"C'n y'promise me somet'in?"

"Yeah, wha's goin' on Rems?"

"'M in trouble. Assassins. If y'late as usual, I prolly ain't gonna make it. So promise y'an'Mercy ain't gonna ever tell y'kids 'bout dat time _Oncle_ Remy t'ought he could fly an' jumped offa da roof an' broke bot' legs, mmkay?"

"Wha? Remy, where are ya?"

Another dull grunt. This one had far more pain behind it—"De church. Y'promise?" His breathing sounded labored and Henri recognized the dull thumping noises in the background as the sounds of hand-to-hand combat. It sounded an awful lot like Remy might be losing.

"Hold on Remy. I ain't makin' no promises 'cuz y'ain't gonna go yet."

"Dat's a nice t'ought, _mon frere,_ but I t'ink Bella's got ot'er ideas."

Another grunt came through Henri's earpiece, followed by a wheezy laugh. "Y'gonna make me do it, ain't ya Bella?" he heard. Then a gunshot, a shriek, a moan, and the link went silent.

Henri's foot slammed the pedal to the floor as he bellowed his brother's name.

* * *

Bella had him cornered. Literally. Still, there was an advantage to having his back to the walls, as he had seen the three other Assassins skulking in the shadows. When they hadn't rushed to Bella's aid, Remy had realized that this was a personal vendetta of some sort but doubted that the others would fail to finish him off, even if he did manage to defeat Bella. The wound in his thigh was bleeding profusely, but the adrenaline flowing through him kept him moving, dodging, fleeing her deadly weapons. He was armed only with his bo staff, which had begun to feel more like a useless stick. Still, he had managed to inflict his fair share of injuries—a cut over her eye was streaming blood and purpling bruises had already begun to show under her skin. Blood trickled from her full lips, split open by his own foot. He knew that he had cracked more than one rib, broken more than just a few blood vessels. She was probably bleeding internally by now. And she was still on her feet, just as he was on his.

_How had she gotten so fast?_ She had never been this skilled before—never this driven, and Remy realized it was probably because she was out for _his_blood. Why, though, evaded him. This would have been so much more easily done in the Louisiana wilderness as they had walked together. Come to think of it, he probably would have preferred to die under the open sky and not in this sepulchral chapel with the sounds of their combat running up and down the walls as if they had a life of their own.

Remy struck out with the bo, catching her hard against her right wrist. She dropped her dagger and drew the limb into her chest, breath catching at the pain. Remy had probably broken it. Still, Bella wasn't an Assassin for nothing: she could throw and strike just as well with her left as her right. Her left leg shot up and out as she came at him, catching him heavily across the jaw.

At this rate, nobody was going to recognize his handsome, rugged features underneath all the bruises.

"What de hell is dis 'bout anyways?" he grunted, irritated that she had yet to say a single word.

"Dis?" she answered, smiling oh-so-sweetly. "Dis is about you'n'me, Remy."

"Den why?" He struck her hard across the stomach with the bo. "Dis is more dan de T'ieves n' Assassins, ain't it?" He took advantage of her breathless moment to throw her into the wall and pin her there with body and bo. She smirked at him as she suddenly jerked her head at him, trying to catch him full in the face. He jerked back swiftly and her forehead struck his collarbone hard enough to make him wince.

Fortunately, her action had turned on the communicator: Static flickered into Remy's earpiece.

And then Henri's voice. Nothing had ever sounded so much like deliverance. He could almost laugh, hearing Henri's frantic tone, if it weren't for the fact that Bella had managed to free one hand which was reaching steadily for yet another one of her hidden knives. He caught her wrist as Henri's voice rang in his ear again: _"Remy LeBeau? Somet'in happen?"_

That was the understatement of the century.

He grunted, too busy concentrating on restraining Bella as she struggled against him to form a real response. Her neckline dipped dangerously low: a suggestive smirk crossed his lips and quirked his eyebrow up at an angle. He took another step in, realizing that it would fluster Bella. He was right—she blushed furiously, but her eyes were still so cold… they had lost any sparkle, any mirth. There was something of hate burning there instead. Still, he relied on his superior weight to keep her in place.

_"Remy, I'mma gonna kick y'ass if y'don't answer me in de next t'ree seconds."_

Only an older brother would say something like that. Too bad that there wasn't going to be much of Remy to kick around if the other three Assassins had anything to say about it. They were already moving out from their shadowy niches, already drawing weapons.

Still, it wasn't like Remy to go out without a smile on his lips. "Y'sound worried, Henri," he joked. Leave it to Henri to have worried and fretted this whole time, even before he knew what was going on. Sometimes his brother was little like the fussy white hens that roamed the yard—always chasing after and clucking at the little chicks, never really convinced that they were ever old enough to leave the nest.

Better that than the homicidal maniac staring him in the face, he supposed.

"_Wha's goin' on?"_

Too much, that was what was going on. Worlds were collapsing around his ears. What if this really was the end?

"C'n y'promise me somet'in?" It was a whim, really, but he couldn't help but think that it mattered to him what would happen to the rest of the family. How many kids were Henri and Mercy going to have? What were they going to look like?

Would they name one after him?

"_Yeah, wha's goin' on Rems?"_

Might as well give him the truth. He just hoped that Henri would understand what he would be walking into, that he'd keep himself from getting killed too. If that happened, he was sure to have hell to pay—Mercy would drag him out whatever underworlds that existed by the heel just to give him a piece of her mind. And then she would kill him.

_Funny,_ he thought, _M'about ready t'snuff it an' m'worried 'bout what a lil' t'ing like Mery's gonna do t'me._

"'M in trouble. Assassins. If y'late as usual, I prolly ain't gonna make it. So promise y'an'Mercy ain't gonna ever tell y'kids 'bout dat time _Oncle_ Remy t'ought he could fly an' jumped offa da roof an' broke bot' legs, mmkay?"

A flicker of guilt ran across Bella's face. Was it possible that she realized what she would be taking away from him?

He didn't know if she even had enough heart left to think about such things.

_"Wha? Remy, where are ya?"_

Bella had taken advantage of his distraction to work one foot out from underneath his and capitalized on her chance by driving her knee up between his legs.

He dropped like a ton of bricks with one grunt.

The world was spinning and his cares seemed to curl up at the edges. Thoughts spun through his mind rapidly…

He was going to die anyways. Did it really matter if it was at Bella's hands or another's?

A small, stubborn part of him refused to give up: a small, stubborn part that felt an awfully lot like Etienne.

It dimly registered that his bo had fallen to the ground as well, just out of arm's reach. And Henri was still waiting for an answer…

"De church. Y'promise?" Remy wheezed. Somehow this was becoming of utmost importance to him…Bella was coming at him again, this time with apparently every intention in the world of taking his head off.

Her first punch landed on his exposed throat. He gasped, coughing wildly, as he caught at her arm and twisted with every bit of energy that he had left. Bella seemed determined not to cry out, though tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

A shame, really. She looked so beautiful tonight.

She kicked at him wildly, but he grabbed her bare leg by the calf and pulled, hard. She came down quickly, unstable in her high heels, but fought like mad to regain her footing.

The other Assassins were closer than ever.

There was no way that he would last three more rounds of this.

_"Hold on Remy. I ain't makin' no promises 'cuz y'ain't gonna go yet."_

Not yet, maybe, but soon enough. Only a matter of minutes now… he only prayed that the Assassins would be done with their business and gone by the time that Henri appeared.

He didn't want anyone else to suffer. Somehow, that seemed like the most important thing right now. Still, it would be just like Henri to come to the rescue… just like all the times before.

Remy only just realized that, in her scrambling, Bella had drawn her handgun. The black barrel seemed to absorb all the light thrown on it, not casting any back in the usual gleam of light on metal. He drew off his gloves slowly.

"Dat's a nice t'ought, _mon frere,_ but I t'ink Bella's got ot'er ideas."

Bella's hand shot out, whipping the pistol across his face. He laughed, a wheezy, weak sound.

"Y'gonna make me do it, ain't ya Bella?" He was holding his bare hands up, looking at them with a slight curiosity.

She watched him warily, both hands locked around the trigger. But they were shaking.

There was no doubt in his mind that she would not fail to pull that trigger. He paused a moment. Looking down the barrel of that gun was like looking into eternity, a black hole ready to devour him.

Might as well get it over with.

He lunged at her.

She pulled the trigger with a shriek.

He seized her chin, one handed, clear-headed despite the searing burn of his shoulder. Perhaps _because_ of that burning.

He knew what he was going to do, despite the fear in her eyes.

He drew her face to his with a bruising grip. She didn't resist—she almost seemed to be expecting this, hoping for it. He could feel her slowly draining into him already, though they had not been connected for more than a second.

His lips met hers with a feral ferocity, even as he felt consciousness slipping away like the blood draining from his shoulder. They fell together, like lovers on the brink of slumber.

Vertigo seemed to swallow him up, tossing him about in a hurricane of Belladonna—her memories, her feelings, the taste of her blood…

He collapsed over her still body, their faces still pressed together, as darkness consumed him and an echoing voice screamed his name…

* * *

Henri was ready to kill someone—Remy wasn't answering and traffic had moved too slowly for his taste.

As it was, he had already had to wildly brandish a handgun out of the window of his vehicle. He'd discharged two bullets into the hood of a shiny new BMW who had moved to cut him off and would be perfectly happy to deliver the same treatment to any other offending drivers. Needless to say, the rest of traffic had moved aside rather courteously after that little display.

Apparently, sometimes violence was the answer.

Now, Henri was slamming on the brakes outside of the brooding Catholic Church as the sky gave way to a full deluge. Lightning flashed ominously across the sky, painting vast pictures of black and white in the clouds as he pelted into the building, leaving the SUV in the street, door flung open and hazard lights flashing. Pedestrians stared—had the man gone mad?

The doors of the church were locked—apparently secured by the Assassins as soon as their target had entered the building. Henri drew the handgun again, pumping bullets into the lock.

It wasn't nearly as effective as it so often was on TV. The door moved slightly on Henri's first attempt to shoulder it open, but finally acquiesced to his strength once another round of "persuasion" was applied. He bolted through, just in time to see one Assassin drive a knife through his brother's uninjured shoulder. Remy moaned slightly: Henri breathed a sigh of relief. He was still alive—for now.

The other two Assassin's were busy with Belladonna, having rolled her away from Remy and now checking her pulse and breathing: her dress was soaked through with Remy's blood, a vivid red blossom against the white contrasting with the dark bruises on her face that were coming into full splendor. Henri trained his gun on her: she was obviously of the most worth to them.

"Get out," he snarled. The remaining Assassin was quick to put a knife to Remy's throat, ready to slit it in one smooth motion. Henri's finger twitched on the trigger: the Assassin rethought his action, quickly darting to the side of the other two. They were gone, with Belladonna, before Henri could care.

He sprinted to Remy's side, fearing the worst. So much ran through his head in that short distance—

_What if he hadn't been late?_

_What if he'd kept Remy just a few minutes longer?_

_What if he had tried to contact him the first time he felt something had gone wrong?_

But that didn't really matter—he had to get the blood to stop. Remy's brown leather trench coat was turning an odd shade of mahogany in spots already, soaked through with his own blood. Henri scooped him up, staggering slightly under the weight—"Guess I ain't d only one who's been eatin' Mercy's cookin'" he joked. Somehow, humor seemed essential at the moment, like a life-preserver in this unknown sea.

Somehow, it helped to convince him that he'd be able to make it all better, like he always had.

Maybe he wouldn't have been able to laugh if he had known that Remy's fight for life, for sanity, was only just beginning: it would be the hardest thing that his brother had faced yet.

* * *

Oh, look, another cliffie!

I swear I'm not normally this cruel, but I'm bored and waiting for my ride out of town. And it is WAY too cold to go play around outside without the winter jacket that I have yet to find...it's somewhere in the thirties today.

I don't know if I care for the fight scene. It's actually the first one that I've written, so feel free to tear it apart. I could use the constructive criticism.

And the song--well, I guess it's obvious that it applies to that last little bit of Remy and Bella's fight, isn't it? Kinda works for their whole relationship in some ways... I'm rambling now, aren't I? Maybe I need to lay off the Dr Pepper...


	7. This is the Way the World Ends

**Chapter Five **

**This is the Way the World Ends  
**

_"We're passing the time,  
we're breaking apart.  
We're damned at the end,  
we're damned at the start.  
Blame it on the roses,  
blame it on the red,  
running out of time  
running out of breath."_

_**-Augustana, "Hey Now"**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

Bobby Drake was, in Rogue's estimation, the single most annoying individual on the planet. Jean, with her perfect hair and even smile, didn't even get on her nerves this much. Boy-scout extraordinaire Scott couldn't even compare, though possessed of the usual obtuseness of the male psyche. Nope, Bobby took the cake--literally.

The outing had started innocently enough--after the disastrous exercises of the morning, Rogue had practically been shoved out of doors by the well-meaning Ororo, who had contrived a picnic lunch, evidently with the goal of building camaraderie. With any other group consisting of four teenagers, numbers equally divided among the sexes, some chemistry might have been expected…

Just not _this_ type of chemistry.

As of the moment, Bobby had turned the entire front lawn into a giant skating rink, cake in hand and a gloating smile plastered across his face. Nothing made that boy happier than showing off. Ergo, why Rogue was ready to do some serious damage. It had started as a joke, really, with Bobby stealing the featured dessert, but the taunting and teasing of the young man had quickly escalated into something more than the girls could handle. Scott had attempted to mediate, but even he was barely in control of his temper. His hands twitched to his visor more than just occasionally, especially after his more glorious stumbles and flat-out falls on the now-slick surface of the lawn. As it was, he was spending more time on his behind than not.

Rogue couldn't appreciate the humor of the situation--that might have something to do with his taunting. Rogue was dimly aware of Jean's prattle, something about being the bigger people and not using their abilities, but Rogue was quickly approaching the point where she couldn't process anything beyond that stupid look on his face. He seemed to think that there was a certain invulnerability inherent in his powers--the smirk said it all. That smirk--Rogue was just itching to wipe it off. Preferably with something hard and damaging.

But it was only her second week at the Institute…and she was bandaged, bruised, _hurt, _and angry as all hell, and Bobby had been teasing and tormenting her since day one. The little voice in the back of her head was telling her not to do it, she was in enough trouble already…but that little voice was silenced pretty quickly as she spotted the deck of cards scattered over the picnic table. In fact, the little voice changed its opinion pretty quickly--after all, one little card couldn't make that big of an explosion, could it? And he certainly deserved it, that was for sure. He had it coming, everyone knew. Just this morning, Wolverine had said that Bobby would get his comeuppance soon, and he deserved it more than anyone else in the Institute. Maybe Rogue was just supposed to be the hand of justice on this one… It was only a little risky, a little scary…but still…

She thumbed the card an instant longer before pulling it into her palm, already feeling the crackle and fizz of energy just below the exposed skin of her fingers. Three seconds more, and Bobby wouldn't even know what hit him…

Two, and just a _little_ charge, just enough to make the edges glow with undulating gold, orange, and a faintly neon pink, barely noticeable…

One, and Bobby was a bare three feet away, smirking as she let the card fly towards his feet and the river of ice he was riding…

Nanoseconds, as Bobby realized what was happening and the smile fell from his lips…

Zero, as a gust of wind changed everything.

* * *

The morphine is something like friendly, as it curls in his veins like a lazy cat, unreasonably heavy and thick—so thick, even through the pain. His eyes aren't opening, though he can hear the low growl of the feline as it gradually begins to surge, rising and growing into something else. He feels himself pushed aside, true unconsciousness beginning to claim him. It's not a house-cat now; it's grown to be something more… tiger, or lion, or prehistoric sabretooth, then something bigger, more ferocious, raging in his body, tearing it limb from limb, sinew from sinew, shred from shred. The hot breath of it stinks of the death and pain that he has been dodging all along. Still, like a shadow, they follow, dogging his every step. His own mind feels unfamiliar, as though he has forgotten the landscape. Perhaps he has—a kaleidoscope of color swirls before his eyes, memories that have run into one another like watercolors in a storm. Cacophony crescendos, scattering the last tatters of awareness—the noise swallows him, a black abyss that opens in the back of his mind.

Falling towards it, towards edges of liminal space, he feels the beast upon his chest, oppressive, the smell of nightshade and blood so heavy, so thick that he wouldn't be able to breathe, even if he remembered how. It rolls and folds him, a restriction on every side, bound in every way, even in this chasm. The last tattered scrap of thought flutters in the wind of defeat, surrenders, and blackness claims him at last.

* * *

"_Lapin."_

_**"Lapin, put that down."**_

"Wha'? 'M hungry. Ain't like 'e's gonna know."

"Get your greedy gob offa tha'!"

"'M a growin' boy, I need th' energy."

"Get it somewhere else, you hog."

"'S'not fair. Ya always did like Remy best."

"Den why'm I marryin' Henri, ya idiot?"

"Mercy, y'ain't very nice."

"An' ya ain't very smart, Lapin. Now get away from de candy bowl already."

"Sheesh, ya're a mean ol' broad."

"I'mma mean ol' broad what's gonna thump you over that thick ol' head of yours."

"Ah, come on, Mercy, all de shoutin' ain't good for Rems."

"You started it."

"Nuh-uh."

"Oh, shut up," Merci hissed, reclining further into the stiff, unyielding hospital armchair. Her attention was divided--half upon the still figure laid out upon the bed, half upon the skinny young man lounging in the corner, conveniently close to the various arrangements of chocolates, candies, and flowers that had already arrived on Remy's behalf. His hand edged towards his sugary goal once again--"_**Lapin, **__get your hand out of that bowl before I chop it off."_

Henri chuckled wearily before glancing at his adoptive brother's still figure. It was hard to believe that even a spark of life still resided there, that the rise and fall of his chest was anything other than purely mechanical. How long has it been? Hours only, hours that were creeping into a full day, yet they feel so much like years. For fully half the night, the surgeons had picked and scrounged, vultures in scrubs, worrying at the wounds. Words like "reconstruction" bandied about with a false authority—Of course he would be fine, the recovery would be full. How did they know? How could they know? This wasn't their brother, their partner in crime lying like a slab of meat on the operating table. Their world would be no different if he left it—What did it matter to them? And so Henri reached for his fiancee's hand.

If there was one thing that he knew, it was that his kids weren't going to grow up without _Oncle_ Remy—and every story he could remember, along with some that he would make up if he had to, of grand and glorious escapades.

Including the time that he thought he could fly.

* * *

_So empty—where is everything? _

The terrain was so strange, so _dark…_

It echoed with unfamiliarity as she came to her senses, muscles curling then stretching. What were the borders? The blind corners? The enemy was somewhere, anywhere, and she had no idea where she was…

The embers of memory flickered and fluttered as she remembered—_Damn it! Damn __**him.**_

Rage flared as she realized what he has done—Rage that killed the fears of dislocation, substituting resolve, revenge, retribution….words and things that glow with a latent heat in the abyss, the torches and brands of destruction.

-------------

Mercy honestly swore to herself that Remy moved—he did, in her mind. Just as he had moved half a dozen times in the last hour. A thousand in the last day. Ten million in the last three days, since Remy had been brought in, a broken ragdoll in Henri's arms. Moved, and opened his eyes, and was Remy again. Henri would stop clutching her hand, grin, and say something stupid. Something stupid, because that was what brothers were for.

Brothers weren't made to grieve over living bodies like this.

She swirled the lukewarm coffee in the Styrofoam cup one last time before draining it away—to tell the truth, it was awful stuff, and somehow fitting for a hospital. Bitter. Stinging, even cold. A little too much like reality. And the reality of it all was that they had no idea what was going to happen.

There were no signs of awareness from Remy at all, not in all the times that they had wheeled him in and out of surgery for that shoulder. It was strange, to have Remy reduced to this, his life as defined by the emissions of odd little machines. Anywhere else, these blips would mean something else entirely, but here they documented the struggle for survival, the last attempt for the sun to shine past the eclipsing moon before darkness engulfed everything…

But in Mercy's opinion, a hospital was no place for philosophy. Reality was too much present, demanding full attention. Implications and significations were crowded into the back of the room, tucked away into closets and between the sheets, never looked at unless it could be helped. Philosophy belonged in death-chambers and schoolrooms, where there was both time and space. This was neither, though it could have been, if only it were allowed. Reality was not giving way: Mercy could feel herself caught up in the hospital's pace, hectic and varying, with every new patient, new tragedy, and new miracle.

Members of both guilds had made up a percentage of those new patients: Scuffles had already broken out in the halls and cafeterias as Thieves and Assassins clashed, each blaming the other party. Walls and floor-tiles had received the splatters of blood as one Assassin had his nose broken and two Thieves had had their faces bashed in.

To Mercy, an outsider, it was all very clear. Romeo and Juliet this was not. The deaths of one or both of the youngsters would only lead to war, not a unification of LeBeau and Bourdreaux.

And at this stage, with circumstances as they stood, the Thieves were in no position to win. She had to wonder if even Remy had a chance to win. How long, how much time did they have, before the doctors began to ask them to think about pulling the plug? Hours, a day, a week, a month… and how long before they began to think that it might be for the best? How long before they began to think of Remy as already gone, all but buried? The hospital room was enough like a tomb, a whited sepulchral hall… How long before Remy's memory was left at the graveyard gates, only picked up for a yearly visit. Maybe on his birthday--but then, no one knew when that really was.

How long did any of them have?

* * *

Falling has never been his favorite—it feels too much like the loss of control. Falling and flailing always seem to go together, with a sickening _crunch_ as a body hits bottom.

Falling feels too much like suicide.

Suicide—and he just fought so hard for his life.

This can't be it.

It's taking too long, so long, he'll be dead before he hits bottom. He scrambles frantically, wriggling, breaking the bonds, stronger than he knows in his desperation. And then he's reaching out, holding out, desperate for something. Just when he thinks he's lost, lost for good, he finds it--A rope. Fraying and fragile, what _has_ to be a single rope, has to be because he needs it to be, brushes his fingertips, grazes his skin, just like the rope on the tire-swing in his backyard, like the rope at the docks, like every other rope he's ever held in his life. He latches on, the friction burning raw stripes into his skin--he can feel the slippery blood welling up from palms, tracing warm lines along his wrists as he clings to this last thread-bare hope. Hope, because he can still bleed.

* * *

The most absurd thing—

A rhyme, a child's rhyme….

No, part of a poem…Ezra? Eliot? Yes, Eliot….

"Hollow Men".

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

_

* * *

  
_

She would never be able to give them a coherent account of what had happened next. She wouldn't even be able to find a proper metaphor for it—it was nothing like a car crash, not like a bomb going off, like nothing else. Honestly, she doesn't even care _how_ it happened—the matter and the mode don't matter, because it's all her fault. That is the one ringing truth.

No one had even spoken to her yet: There was a vague memory of panic, of someone yelling, being swept along in the rush down to the med-bay. It seemed much more concrete that the flooring had a seam every six feet, that there were 6 seams to her right and 7 to her left, and maybe an eighth right in the threshold of the doorway that ended the corridor.

Even halfway down the hall, everything smelled like antiseptic.

Her fingers were cramped from being curled around the bottom of the bench. The edges of her scabs had peeled away, letting red fluid soak her bandages anew. In a way, it felt right—she deserved the pain. Whether or not she had meant what had happened, it was still her fault.

_Her_ fault, no matter what everyone else said. Jean, all-too-perfect Jean, had softly murmured something about it being an accident, not meaning for it to happen, and unpredictability. Scott had been shamefaced, claiming a leader's responsibility. Logan hadn't said a word. The professor had just given her one of those long, assessing looks.

That was the worst. Rogue could have handled him furious better—she might be just half the mess that she was now. Instead she scrubbed her sleeves over her face every few moments, pretending that it erased the tears and hid the sounds of her sniffling.

Her lips still tasted like salt.

And maybe it would have been better if she could hear something from down the hall, but there was nothing. Not a sound.

Bobby was probably asleep. Everyone else had come and gone, visiting when they were cleared. But Rogue still sat in the hall, alone. She didn't know what he looked like, what the extent of his injuries were. She didn't, wouldn't ask. And she couldn't go into that room.

He must hate her by now. Lord knew everyone else had to. Two weeks in, and she'd already screwed up beyond belief. Beyond repair.

She might as well forget about it all, right here, right now. She wasn't good for anything, and especially not for anyone.

* * *

**AN: **Well, I'm still alive. And kicking. Kind of. Sorry it took so long :( Review anyway? Please? (OK, OK, I know....needy, right? lol)


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